


lesser known

by squilf



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Carl Manfred is a Flirt, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Issues, Flirting, Fluff, Good Parent Carl Manfred, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pre-Canon, Reader-Insert, maybe two people will read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27507208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: You go to an art gallery event on the promise of free wine, and end up bumping into Carl Manfred. He asks to paint you. You say yes.Carl Manfred x Female Reader.
Relationships: Carl Manfred & Markus, Carl Manfred/Reader, Markus (Detroit: Become Human) & Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	lesser known

**Author's Note:**

> A special shout out goes to [riddlemethissj](https://riddlemethissj.tumblr.com/), who I told about this fic about a million years ago, and [Yasky361](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasky361/pseuds/Yasky361/), who loves Carl. And of course, thank you so much to everyone who has read, left kudos and commented on my Bishop x Reader fics. A few of you got talking to me about _Detroit: Become Human_ because androids and because Lance, which is why this fic happened. I’m new to reader-insert fics, and the ones I’ve written so far are rarepairs for small fandoms, so every comment and message sparks so much joy!

You’re officially about to give up on the evening.

One of your more high-flying friends enticed you to some posh event at the art gallery where she works on the promise of free wine, an excuse to wear a rather spectacular dress you bought years ago but have never had an occasion for, and close proximity to single – and wealthy – men. Now you’re hot, your ankles are killing you, and you think you’ve been mansplained to more in the last couple of hours than you have all year. You peel away from the crowded hall and sit down in a quiet corner, fanning yourself and plotting your escape.

“Are you hiding as well?” someone says.

You recognise him instantly. Every man here is wearing a tuxedo, but Carl Manfred _is_ pretty recognisable, even if you’re not big on the art scene.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he says, rolling his wheelchair over, “I hate these things.”

“Does the free wine not redeem the evening?” you ask.

“Not at all. But a beautiful girl might.”

It takes you a second to realise he’s talking about you.

“I actually wasn’t going to come until I heard you’d be here,” you say, “I’m a big fan.”

You wince. That… sounded too keen.

“Don’t worry, I promise I’m not one of those crazy fans,” you add, “I’m not going to throw my bra at you. I’m not even wearing one. You can’t with this dress.”

The words come out in a rush, and you blush as soon as you’ve said them. Carl looks quietly amused.

“For what it’s worth, I’m already enjoying myself more than I usually do,” he says.

“You want to sneak out of here?” you say conspiratorially.

“Darling, you can take me anywhere you like.”

“Come on, then,” you say, slipping behind him to take hold of his wheelchair, “I know a place.”

You back out of the room and turn down a corridor, away from the party. Carl snags a couple of glasses of wine along the way. You take him out to a walled garden that’s almost certainly meant to be closed off to guests for the evening, the air heavy with the scents of flowers, the light fading but gentle and golden.

“Alone at last,” Carl says.

“It took you all of five minutes to get me alone,” you say.

“I wasn’t the one doing the getting. I was pushed here.”

There’s a bench along the far wall, surrounded by vines. You sit down on it and Carl passes you a glass, wheeling his chair next to you.

“So, what do you think?” you say, looking out at the view.

“Lovely.”

You smile.

“I thought you’d like it here.”

“Oh, yes,” Carl says, a little distractedly, “The garden’s nice as well.”

You laugh, wondering if you’ve ever been flirted with quite so thoroughly.

“What am I going to do with you?” you say.

“I couldn’t possibly suggest.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“And there was I thinking you had something of a reputation.”

Carl shrugs.

“Perhaps I did, once. Before I got so old.”

“Oh, I can tell you’re very out of practice with flirting.”

“You’ll just have to help me get back into it.”

* * *

You’re not sure how long you stay out there. It doesn’t feel like long at all, with Carl making you laugh and answering your questions and flirting only a little outrageously, but you talk until the night’s drawn in and the air is clear and cold.

“There you are.”

An android walks into the garden, looking somewhat accusingly at Carl.

“Oh, hello, Markus,” Carl says.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Markus says, “People have been asking where you are.”

“That’s my fault,” you say, “I had so many questions for Carl about his work. I still do.”

“You should come visit the studio,” Carl says, “Ask me what you like there.”

“Really?” you say.

Carl reaches into his pocket and produces a card.

“Terribly old-fashioned, I know,” he says, handing it over to you, “But there’s my number.”

Markus frowns at Carl.

“We never have people at the studio.”

“That’s because beautiful young women never express an interest in coming to the studio anymore,” Carl says.

“Did they use to?” Markus says, looking somewhat sceptical.

“In great quantities. The twenties were a different time.”

“You always say that,” Markus says.

* * *

You give it a few days before you call. You wonder if Carl was just giving you his card to be polite, but he’s true to his word. His house is beautiful and his studio is the best part of it, with light streaming in through huge windows and an earthy smell of paint and charcoal.

“You know, I could paint you,” Carl says as you’re poring over one of his sketchbooks, pencil lead turning your fingertips black.

He’s dressed more casually than the last time you saw him, sleeves rolled up, showing his tattooed forearms. You think he looks more like himself.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you say.

“I mean it,” Carl says, “When I paint… I don’t feel like I’m saying anything new.”

“I’ve never sat for a painting,” you say, “I expect I’d have to be here for a while?”

“Only long enough for you to fall in love with me.”

“So, an evening?” you say.

Carl laughs.

“Do I get to keep my clothes on?” you ask.

“For the sitting? Of course. Afterwards? Completely optional.”

* * *

And that’s how you end up modelling for a painting by Carl Manfred.

“Forgive me if I’m difficult,” he says on the first day, as he tilts your head up, his hand under your chin, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a model.”

“I thought artists were always having affairs with their models,” you say.

“That explains why you were so keen to sit for me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Markus says, “He’s not usually like this.”

Markus helps around the studio. Carl doesn’t just have him fetching paint and brushes; he teaches him about what he’s doing with the painting, his technique and process. You’re surprised – not everyone would think an android capable of appreciating art. But Carl’s not everyone, and Markus isn’t, either. Carl tells you he has a son, but you think he really has two.

It’s incredible to see Carl at work, to see a painting take shape from just a few rough sketches. Coming by the studio becomes a routine, something to look forward to at the end of every week. Your friends joke about your _new gentleman friend_ (“Are you going to become a trophy wife?” and so on). You laugh along and don’t mention how fond you are of the few hours when you can sit in a room full of light and drink tea and talk to Carl.

You love hearing his stories – he has a lot of them, some more scandalous than others – and you feel like your life is a lot less interesting than his, but he asks you questions, and he listens to the answers. Talking to him is comfortable, but so are the silences, when they come.

“The next time you come, I think this’ll be done,” Carl says, one morning.

He’s been quieter than usual today, focusing on getting the shading right.

“Thank you,” you say, “For doing this.”

“Thank you for giving me something new to say.”

“What are you saying?” you ask.

Carl smiles.

“Well, that’s the thing about art. It’s open to interpretation.”

* * *

You can’t help but be a little sad the next time you walk up to Carl’s house. It’s going to be the last time you do this. It felt like, for a short while, something magical happened to you. Everything that stresses you, that makes things hard, didn’t go away but it did seem to matter less. But after today, it’s back to real life.

And then a young man suddenly steps out in front of you, blocking your path. He says your name.

“Yes?” you say, startled, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“This is my father’s house,” the young man says.

“You’re Leo?” you say, “Carl didn’t mention you were coming.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.”

“Actually, it’s you I came to see.”

“What? Why?”

“My father’s always liked a pretty face. My mother was one. I hear you’re the latest.”

You frown.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” Leo says sharply, “And it’s gone on long enough.”

He clenches his jaw, balls his hands into fists.

“Please, don’t take my father’s dignity. Don’t let everyone see the great artist made a fool by a greedy little gold digger. Don’t be an embarrassing endnote to his career.”

“I’m not…” you stammer.

“I don’t care what you are. You know what people will _think_.”

* * *

You don’t go in. 

You don’t answer when Carl calls. You weren’t going to see him again, anyway. All you’ve missed was a chance to say goodbye. Weeks go by, then months. You wonder if this is just going to be a story you tell one day, something that happened a long time ago. _You know, I met Carl Manfred once. He painted me._ It doesn’t make you feel any better. All you have now is Carl’s card, tatty at the edges from where you’ve been turning it over and over in your hands.

And then, late one night, you get a phone call from Markus. You let it go to voicemail.

“I’m sorry,” he says in the message, “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. It’s just… Carl’s sick. His son turned up, and… It was bad. It’s always bad. Carl’s okay. They say he’ll recover. But he doesn’t seem to want to. Please. He was better, with you.”

* * *

You meet Markus at the hospital the next day, and you hug him.

“Thank you for coming,” he says.

He shows you into Carl’s room and says something about going to get coffee.

“Hi Carl,” you say quietly.

He’s in bed, surrounded by tubes and machines, and it breaks your heart to see him like this. You’ve always known he’s old but he’s always been so alive, so animated.

“Is there room for a little one?” you ask.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a beautiful woman in my bed.”

You climb in beside him – the bed’s more than big enough for you both, and you lie curled on your side, your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t get excited,” you say into his chest, “I’ve been told I’m not allowed to let your heart rate get too high.”

“Well, I’ve always thought we should wait until we’re married.”

You laugh, and then you can’t stop yourself from crying, because this is _Carl_ , who is gentle and gruff and funny, and must’ve been charming the nurses the whole time he’s been here.

“I’ve missed you,” you say.

“I expect you’ve been away with some terrible boyfriend?”

You shake your head, tears dripping from your eyelashes.

“I… had a conversation with Leo.”

“Let me guess,” Carl says, “He told you to stay away from his inheritance.”

“He called me a gold digger. And I was scared you’d think he was right.”

“I wasn’t there for Leo, growing up. Paying child support wasn’t enough. These days, I think all he wants from me is money. I blame the Red Ice, but I blame myself more.”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Carl reaches up and strokes your hair.

“I know I’m just an old man clinging to my brushes. I just thought I might have found something better to cling to.”

“When does the clinging start?” you ask.

“It’ll start right here, if you’re not careful.”

“Stop it,” you say, “I don’t want to get in trouble with the nurses.”

“I wouldn’t mind, myself.”

“Don’t make me jealous.”

“I can’t let you get complacent, my love. Got to give you a reason to keep chasing me.”

You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry, Carl. I should have talked to you. I was a coward. I went away before you could send me away.”

“Darling, the furthest I’d send you away is to the other side of the room. And only so I could paint you.”

“Okay if I stay put, for the time being?” you ask.

“How about forever?”

You hear the click of the door and raise your head. It’s Markus, come back with two cups of coffee. He takes one look at you both and says, “That went better than I hoped.”

“I was just about to ask her to marry me,” Carl says.

“Really?” Markus says.

“Ignore him, Markus,” you say, “He’s only teasing.”

“I’m not,” Carl says, “It’s about time you made an honest man of me.”

“You’ve been ill,” you say, “I should at least wait until you have your full faculties.”

“At my age, my dear, I think most of them aren’t coming back.”

* * *

Carl comes home in a matter of days. He insists he’s fine and he doesn’t want anyone fussing, and is suitably grumpy with you and Markus whenever he thinks you’re being too careful with him. (Which starts as soon as you arrive, because you’ve brought him flowers.)

“Come on,” Carl says, leading you into the studio, “I have something to show you.”

The canvas is much smaller than most of Carl’s work, but it draws the eye irresistibly, like a magnetic pull. It’s stunning, brushstrokes swirling into a storm of colours, golden and dark blue and green. And amongst it all, a figure that looks like you, made of starlight.

“Carl, it’s beautiful,” you breathe.

Anything you can say seems hopelessly inadequate. It’s like Carl has a bit of magic inside of him, and it’s spilled out of his fingers into this. But it’s not magic, because you saw it happen, and it took hours, and years of practice and life before that. 

“Well, I had a lot to work with,” Carl says.

You get closer to the painting, studying its subject. She looks real yet otherworldly – like you could reach out and touch her, if only she didn’t slip away first. She’s smiling a Mona Lisa smile, her eyes bright and good-humoured and _yours_. She _is_ you. Somehow, Carl’s captured something of you that a photograph never could. This isn’t how you see yourself. You don’t think anyone’s ever seen you like this before.

“Is she in a garden?” you ask, stepping back.

It’s only when you look closer that you see it – the star-shaped brushstrokes like unfurling flowers, the thick paint applied with a palette knife striking upwards like grass growing towards the sun.

“Yes,” Carl says, “I wanted that to be something you see only once you’ve looked at it for a while.”

You smile, remembering the night you met. Carl may be a terrible flirt, but he’s a dedicated one.

“What are you going to call it?” you ask.

“My agent chooses the titles, usually – something either very straightforward or very fanciful. In his hands, this would probably be _Girl in a garden_ or _Cultivated Sunlight_. But I think it should be named after you.”

You turn to look at him, surprised.

“Why?”

“There are an awful lot of paintings of women that people look _through_. They were real once, but now they’re just muses. A model the artist probably had an affair with. A footnote to the art, not the art itself.”

Carl gestures towards the painting.

“This might live longer than the both of us. People may see this who haven’t even been born yet. I don’t want them to see something beautiful, something it took great skill to create. I want them to see _you_. And even if they don’t, they will know you were real, and they will know I loved you.”

You bite your lip and look down. Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you’re about five seconds away from sobbing. Leo said you’d be an embarrassment to his father’s career, something people would think less of him for. You believed him. Carl doesn’t think that. He doesn’t care.

“All that said, it may end up being one of my lesser known works,” Carl adds.

“Stop talking,” you say.

“Why? Are you going to kiss me?”

“If I kiss you every time you’re talking nonsense, we’ll be here for a very long time.”

“Oh dear,” Carl says, pulling you onto his lap, “That _would_ be terrible.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading ~~all both of you~~. If you enjoyed this, I’d love it if you left a comment or [sent me an ask on tumblr](https://squilf.tumblr.com/ask). You can even leave a prompt or request – I’m working through a few at the moment, including another Bishop fic that will be coming really soon!


End file.
